


Reliance

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellison doesn't really do relying on people. But Blair Sandburg's an excellent teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reliance

 First published in  _See No Evil_ (2002)

 

Figured, Jim Ellison thought as he ducked another blow from the suspect he was trying and failing to subdue. Of all the times Sandburg could have chosen to listen to him and stay with the truck out of harm’s way, he’d have to pick the one when Jim could have really used him.

Not that the guy, a two-bit pickpocket, was more than he could handle. In fact, Blair wouldn’t have been in danger at all. But the suspect was the first the detective had met who maybe could have outtalked his partner. If nothing else, Sandburg might have gotten his attention and tried to talk the guy down. As it was, the five-foot-nothing would-be arrestee was so wound up, it didn’t even seem to occur to him that he was swinging on a cop almost twice his size.

“You’re not taking me in, I swear I didn’t do nothing, I was just trying to be friendly, you know, and then this lady starts screaming...”

Jim sighed and opened his mouth one last time to try to get the attention of the motormouth he was holding at arm’s length before he had to do real damage to the guy.

“Listen, you, if you don’t settle--”

The pickpocket might not have been smart, but he was nimble. Just as Jim began to speak, the little man slipped to one side and pulled at the same time, throwing Ellison unexpectedly off balance. And right into the brick wall of the store beside them.

Fireworks of pain took over for a minute, Jim shaking his head to clear it, but the momentary distraction was all his detainee needed. Squirming out of the detective’s grasp, he took off as if his shoes were on fire.

Which would be the least of his problems if Jim caught up with him. Giving his head a last shake, the detective took a step after the guy, and promptly skewed sideways to fall against the brick wall.

Okay, so he hadn’t been as ready as he thought. His head still hurt and his vision remained a little blurry, but he’d done his job despite worse. Jim straightened and took another bounding step after the rapidly disappearing pickpocket.

And suddenly his feet were so badly tangled that he fell hard to the ground.

Ellison growled his frustration. There was pretty much no chance left of catching his fleet-footed suspect, and all because of some ridiculous dizziness. Smacking the ground in annoyance, he carefully pushed himself to his feet...

...and immediately found himself slumped against the wall again.

Puzzled, he reached out to brace himself against the cool bricks, and found that his hand struck the rough surface before his eyes told him it should. He gave a brief curse. What was going on here?

“Jim?”

That was Sandburg, and at least the sound of his footsteps seemed a reliable measure. The kid appeared in front of him just as his thudding steps ended right next to Jim.

Worried, exploring fingers took his arm. “You okay, man?”

He realized then that he had his eyes shut, trying to block out the misleading information. Opening them warily, Jim glared first at the offending wall, then at Sandburg. Still only one of each, if a little distorted around the edges. He reached out for the kid, letting out another epithet as his hand didn’t encounter Blair’s shoulder where it should have been.

“Jim, what’s wrong? Is it your head--did you hit your head? Omigosh, you’re bleeding!”

That was a revelation, and he sucked in a breath as the grad student pressed something to the side of his head a moment later, onto where it hurt worst.

“Okay, I know that hurts but you can turn it down.”

Did the kid think he was into pain? Jim was _trying_ to turn it down, but that was a little hard when you were confused about which way was _down_ in the first place.

Blair was craning low into his field of vision to look him in the eye. “What’s going on, Jim--talk to me. You’re scaring me here.” He was already fumbling the cellphone out of his pocket, and Ellison knew what that meant: an ambulance, too many lights and sirens, tons of paperwork after. He tried to close his hand over Sandburg’s again but missed, catching a handful of his jacket instead. That was getting old fast, but fine, he clenched his jaw. The jacket would work, too, and he gave the handful of material a shake.

“I don’t need an ambulance.”

Sandburg forgot the phone as soon as Ellison spoke, once more trying to meet his gaze. “Are you sure? Then tell me what’s wrong, Jim.”

Sometimes he forgot how forceful his Guide could be when he was worried about his Sentinel. The detective shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear the fuzz away. “I don’t know, it’s like...I’m tripping over my own feet and nothing seems to be where it looks like it is.”

Blair was frowning--even slightly off, Jim could see the look that meant the observer was thinking at full speed. “Are you talking about balance? You’re having balance problems?”

He pulled away from the wall to wave the hand that wasn’t holding onto Blair, then promptly wedged it back against the brick surface as he felt himself tilt. “It’s more than that. Even when I’m standing still, I can’t seem to find anything where it should be.” He demonstrated by letting go of Blair’s jacket and making another grab for the phone, finding it on the third try. “See?”

“Maybe it’s a concussion--you hit your head. That can affect balance...”

“I’ve had a concussion before,” Jim argued. “They usually hurt worse than this and you see double. I’m not seeing double, Sandburg, things are just a little blurry.”

“And you hit your head...” Blair looked like he was chewing on his lip, one hand still pressing whatever piece of cloth he had against Jim’s head, the other curled uncertainly around the phone.

His face suddenly cleared.

“That’s it! You hit your head--you must have affected your vision center. That doesn’t just play into what you see, it controls your equilibrium, your reflexes, your coordination, even a little bit what’s called your proprioception, your--”

“--awareness of where your body is, Chief, yeah, I know. So what does that mean?”

Blair’s hand was carefully working on his, loosening Ellison’s grip on the phone and placing it instead on his own shoulder. “Well, that means we’d better get you to the hospital, for one thing. And that maybe you should close your eyes to make it a little easier, and just lean on me.”

Jim grimaced. He hated this, hated feeling like a blind, helpless puppy. Lean on Sandburg--he already did that more than he cared to admit, but there was little choice in the matter this time. He’d already seen what trying it on his own got him, and unless he wanted to try to find the truck on his hands and knees, Sandburg seemed like his only ticket.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, he shut his eyes and nodded, trying to ignore the even greater sense of disorientation that the lack of sight--even faulty sight--gave him. “Okay, Kemosabe, lead the way,” he muttered.

Blair did, stepping slowly and smoothly, no doubt watching Jim’s unsteady feet. As for Ellison, tightrope walking would have felt safer. The pavement seemed to rise and fall unexpectedly beneath him, sending his stumbling feet in all different directions. A particularly frustrating misstep and he nearly sent both of them toppling. Jim growled.

“It’s okay, just take it easy. The truck’s only a few more feet away.” And Sandburg’s arm slid around his waist to give him a more solid base.

Okay, so it helped. Most things the kid tried helped, in fact. But he didn’t have to like it. Jim Ellison blindly glared at the unseen world around him as they reached the truck and he slid into the passenger side.

 

“...I still say you were driving too fast.”

“Jim, I was not driving too fast, it just feels faster when you can’t see.”

“It’s because I couldn’t see that it was so obvious you _were_ going too fast! How many times have you told me that my other senses compensate when one of them is out of whack?”

“To tell what speed you’re going while inside a moving car? What are you, a human speedometer now?” Blair’s shoulder remained steady beneath Jim’s hand even as the observer’s voice rose. The Sentinel could hear its different timbre as they left the elevator and walked out into the hallway in front of the loft door.

“I’m just saying, it’s my truck, you’re only driving it for a few days--I want it back in one piece.”

“Ha-ha,” was Blair’s sarcastic reply. A jingle of keys and a cool rush of air as the loft door was opened. “You want to go to the couch or up to your room? Though that might be kind of dangerous, with the open railing and stairs...”

“I’m going to the kitchen and I don’t need any more help, thanks,” Jim declared, letting go of Sandburg’s shoulder and feeling along the edge of the table by the door.

Ah, home. The doctor had said much of what Blair had, that it seemed he’d bruised the vision center of his brain a little and might have some coordination and balance problems for a few days until it healed. In the meantime, Ellison had discovered that between dark glasses and very careful concentration of where he placed his feet, he could feel his way along to where he wanted to go. And now that he was on home turf, he intended to do just that.

He could actually hear the air Sandburg sucked in to protest his announcement, then heard the jacket material swish as the kid shrugged instead. “Okay, have it your way, man,” he said airily, and reaching around Jim to close the front door, walked to the couch and plopped down. Another moment and Ellison could hear the soft whisper of turning pages.

His way--exactly. That was just what he had in mind. And first off, he was starving.

The kitchen counter started right beside the door. Only a little bit of searching and he clamped onto the edge of it. So far so good. Righting the rest of his body was a little harder but he managed to get himself facing in the right direction. He hoped.

One step. Two. This was a piece of cake. His hand slid along the counter, keeping its contact. One more step, and it promptly slid right into a full glass, tipping it over. Jim’s hand was promptly soaked and he jerked it back with a start, plunging himself into spatial chaos.

He could still do this. With a determined breath, Jim took a careful step, hands stretched out on both sides to find either the counter or kitchen island to hold on to.

Before he could, his foot found the liquid that had flowed off the counter, and slid right out from under him. Ellison found the counter when his elbow impacted sharply on it the way down, momentarily numbing his hand clear to his fingertips.

He was sitting and cursing a blue streak, trying to find a hold to help himself up, when solid hands grabbed him under the shoulders, pulling him in the direction he guessed was up. Sulking, Jim let them, then shrugged free as his feet found solid purchase again.

“I’m okay, Sandburg.”

“You sure you don’t want me to fix you some--”

“No!”

“Okay, okay.” He could almost see Blair raise both hands in surrender. “Have it your way. I just prefer you and the kitchen in one piece.”

He didn’t even dignify that with a response.

It took a while longer but he was more careful this time, too, and succeeded in retrieving the mustard, mayonnaise, and cold cuts from the refrigerator. Maybe that would show Sandburg the value of organization, he thought smugly, as he reached for the toast that had loudly popped up.

His yelp brought Sandburg running again.

“What’d you--oh, man, you burned your fingers. Hold on, that looks like it’s starting to blister.” And once more, very careful and damnably steady hands took hold of him, leading him to the sink, then gently loosening his hold on the appendage that felt like it was on fire. Jim chewed the inside of his mouth to keep from swearing as he could hear the faucet being turned on, and then wonderfully cool water ran over his blazing fingers, instantly dimming the pain.

He probably could have stood there all day except that Blair was moving around him, and too soon his hand was pulled away from the stream, immediately starting to burn again. He was about to protest when half his fingers was plunged into a bowl of even colder water. Ice cubes gently floated past his knuckles. Ellison sighed in relief.

“It does look like it’s gonna blister, Jim. Just keep ‘em in there for a while until it doesn’t hurt so much, then we’ll put some stuff on it and I’ll bandage the worst one.”

Sullen pride reared its head again, and Jim all-but-snapped at the new helper he didn’t want or need. “I can do it myself, Sandburg.”

A pause, then quietly, “Don’t you think you’re taking this whole independence kick a little too far, Jim? I mean, you’re not only functionally blind, your whole coordination is off. Let me just play seeing eye dog for a couple of days until you can get around and then we’ll forget this ever happened, what do you say?”

“I say I can get around by myself,” Jim declared stubbornly. And he could, he just had to be careful.

A deep sigh. His roommate didn’t seem too happy to have his offer of puppy dog-devotion turned down, but Ellison didn’t really care. He didn’t ask for help, nor need it. This arrangement was for the sentinel thing alone, right? At least that’s what they’d both signed up for when he’d taken the kid in as a roommate a few months before. So okay, so it had been a roommate for a week that had turned into an indefinite stay, but that still didn’t mean he needed a personal babysitter.

Sandburg retreated without a word this time, his steps heavier than usual. Jim felt a twinge of regret and just as quickly stomped it down. It wasn’t like the observer didn’t have plenty of his own work to be doing without having to help Jim. He was the one doing the kid a favor.

But as for what next...Jim tried pulling his fingers experimentally from the bowl, only to wince and return them as the air felt like lava on his burnt skin. Okay, so the bowl would come with and the sandwich could wait. It was more trouble than it was worth and he wasn’t that hungry, anyway.

It took a little experimenting, but he finally discovered that sliding the bowl fractionally along the counter, then following it with his feet, he was able to move with more or less coordination.

And then he reached the end of the counter and the bowl nearly tipped off before he caught it. End of the line.

Blair had obviously been watching him and didn’t even try arguing with him this time. Sandburg held onto the bowl and firmly but steadily pulled Ellison over in stumbling steps to the couch, shoving him down onto the cushions. Jim nursed his wounded pride and his burnt fingers in silence as he heard the grad student putter in the kitchen. Probably cleaning up whatever drink he’d spilled, he thought guiltily. He got his answer when Sandburg returned to the living room and placed his other hand onto a sandwich, then, more carefully, a bottle of soda. A little further explanation revealed that Blair had apparently cut a slit into the plastic bottle top just wide enough to push a straw through, cleverly making a bottle that would be considerably difficult to spill.

Jim had to admit, it was farther than he’d have gotten on his own in the near future. “Thanks, Chief,” he said grudgingly. He could accept the help but he didn’t have to like it.  
           

“You're welcome, Jim,” came the placid answer, and the TV flicked on. He couldn’t even trace the channels that blurred by until Blair stopped on a game. Jim broke into a grin. That was something. Maybe he couldn’t see it, although he could somewhat if he opened his eyes, but at least he could listen.

Footsteps announced Blair’s departure, the doors of his room soon shutting behind him, but by then, Jim was completely immersed in the game and didn’t even notice.

 

He awoke in stages, different senses coming to life, gradually becoming aware of where he was. On the couch, more or less horizontal, it felt like. The folded afghan they kept in the living room was a light weight down the length of his body, and the shades were drawn, throwing the room into late-afternoon shade. The TV had also been turned off.

Jim lifted his head to give his environment an assessing glance even as he shook the sleep from his brain. And remembered just what he was doing there, sacked out on the couch during the day, as the room lurched around him. He swallowed a sigh. Terrific. He would have been perfectly happy if that part had been a dream.

One attempt to sit up with his eyes open were all he needed to be convinced that eyes shut was still the better idea, and Jim eased himself upright with a grimace. At least his hand wasn’t so bad again, just aching like a bad sunburn, and the place he’d hit his head was only a distant throb. Still, he tucked his injured fingers to himself as he finally turned the rest of his senses outward to realize that the loft around him was awfully quiet.

He frowned. “Sandburg?” But the call echoed in the still living room, and he’d known already that there wouldn’t be an answer. The familiar heartbeat wasn’t there, nor anywhere in his hearing distance.

Well, that was what he’d wanted, right, to be left alone? Sandburg had finally taken him at his work and probably left to do some studying. Ellison vaguely remembered the kid mentioning some kind of plans that afternoon to work on some assignment--Jim hadn’t been paying that close attention. Good, no more interference, no one to see him stumbling around like a fool.

It felt...lonely.

Shaking the ridiculous thought free, Jim stood cautiously and turned himself toward what seemed to be the direction of the bathroom. He took a breath, then slid one foot forward a half-dozen inches, followed carefully by the other. Slow progress, but better than falling all over the place. He kept at it, not letting himself think about anything else, using the smell of disinfectant and shampoos and deodorant to guide him to his destination. Finally bumping a wall, he let out a sigh of relief as a little bit of feeling around revealed the bathroom door just to his left. He slid his way over to it, and then inside.

A bit more ginger exploration, smacking his good hand only once on the hard porcelain of the sink, and he located the toilet. Thank God. At least he could relieve himself without help--nice to know there were still a few small givens he could count on--and his aim was still good. Washing his hands turned out to be easy enough, too, and with new confidence, Jim turned back toward the door.

And in his haste, promptly slipped on the slick tile and fell backwards, hard.

The bathroom throw rug absorbed the worst of the shock, his spine jarred and his tailbone aching but otherwise intact. His burnt left hand was what got the worst of it, smacking against the faucet in the tub in an eye-popping explosion of agony. It was all he could think about for a minute to curl the hand against his chest and rock with the waves of pain.

His wet hand, actually. As his vision cleared as much as it was going to, the red haze coalesced into a bloody appendage. From his squinting examination, it looked like he’d sliced it raggedly open along the length of the palm.

“That’s just great,” he grumbled to the empty room. Five minutes awake without Sandburg and already he was bleeding. The kid would have a field day with that one.

Except, it was true.

Jim levered himself to his feet with a grunt, managing to snag one of the towels off the rack without doing himself more damage. He sat down on the closed toilet seat lid and wound the towel hard around his hand; further treatment, necessitating the gathering of supplies from the medicine cabinet and the kitchen, didn’t seem too likely. Simply going to the bathroom had already proved to be nearly beyond him. When Blair came home...

The unexpected relief at the thought brought Ellison up short.

It was usually easy to pretend he was the one doing Sandburg the favor--letting him stay at his home, keeping an eye out for him, giving him the information he needed for his research paper. After all, he was the one with the loft, the steady job, and the remarkable senses. And Sandburg usually let him keep that illusion.

And then something came along to remind Jim he wasn’t as independent as he thought.

Sure, the kid didn’t usually have to make him lunch and lead him around like a dog on a leash to keep him from falling on his face. But helping him control senses that otherwise threatened to spiral out of control, tagging along on cases in an honest effort to help and usually managing to do so, giving up a substantial portion of his space and time to help Jim with his senses--that wasn’t just because it meant a place to stay and easy access to a research subject.

Jim winced, drawing the towel tighter around his hand. It wasn’t something he usually liked to think about, how out-of-control he really was alone and that maybe he did need somebody. But...if he did...maybe there were worse things than having someone who cleaned up his messes and made him lunch and put up with his ungrateful bad temper throughout? Maybe someone who was becoming...a friend?

Maybe, Jim grudgingly conceded. And maybe Stephen would talk to him again someday. It was possible, but not very likely.

Still, there were definitely worse things. Like not having said roommate around when he was bleeding to death and worse than blind.

The hand towel was starting to turn red, and Jim’s stomach was queasy as he pulled the other towel off the rack beside him and wrapped it tightly around the first. Apparently the cut was deeper than he’d thought. Stitches didn’t work too well on the hand, but if he couldn’t get the bleeding stopped...it wasn’t likely that he’d bleed to death from one cut, but lightheadedness was a danger, as was falling and hurting himself worse. Making a face, Jim eased himself off the toilet seat and down to the floor, resting his head back against the wall.

He was still there ten minutes later, shivering with the combination of a cold tile floor under him and blood loss, when the front door rattled and that unique combination of smells and sounds that was his partner walked in.

“Sandburg,” he called, sounding more tired than he’d expected. It had definitely been a long day.

“Jim?” Blair’s face appeared at the doorway, the familiar mass of curls pulled back into a ponytail. Funny he would notice that when he couldn’t even make out what color shirt the kid was wearing, but Jim let the trivial thought go.

Sandburg came in all the way, expression already concerned.

“Jim? I just went out for a half-hour to get some stuff for dinner--what did you do to your hand?”

He was kneeling in front of Ellison before the detective registered the movement, gently unwrapping the towels. You weren’t supposed to do that, Jim wanted to say--you were supposed to keep pressure on until the bleeding stopped and you could get help...but this was help, right? Sandburg certainly seemed to know what he was doing as he reached the last layer, easing the fabric free of the wound with a sympathetic hiss and a delicate touch.

It wasn’t bleeding anymore, and in the time it took Jim to note that, Blair had already retrieved the antibiotic/antiseptic tube and a roll of gauze. One thick layer of the ointment and then he made quick work of wrapping the hand, moving on to also do the one finger that had blistered from the earlier burn. He was done before Jim realized it.

Actually, Ellison had been distracted by Sandburg’s uncharacteristic silence throughout the procedure; he usually talked a mile a minute, especially when he was nervous. And there was no question about the uncertainty in his eyes as they rose now to look at Jim, one hand uneasily smoothing down his own shirt while the other gathered the scattered supplies.

“Uh, you want a hand back to the living room? I don’t think it’s good for you to stay on the cold floor, Jim--you’re already shivering--but if you don’t want a hand, hey, whatever--”

He had to cut into the flow of words just to answer. “I’d appreciate a hand, Chief.”

A blink. “You would? Good. I mean, that’s good, you just...save your strength.”

He almost rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but Ellison couldn’t help but appreciate the sentiment. It was an excuse to make him feel better about accepting help. Sandburg was the one who’d been there all day despite whatever other plans he’d had, and had all but offered to do the same for however longer he was needed. Now he was the one who was making Jim feel better about accepting it. It didn’t take being a detective to recognize something was wrong there.

Sandburg took his good hand, using both arms to lever the detective upright, then moving next to him to guide and steady him. Guide--Brackett had called the observer that. Ellison hadn’t given it much thought then, but the idea had cropped up now and again in his head since. And he had a feeling the title had meant far more to the kid. Sandburg, for all his enthusiasm, tended to take his responsibilities to Jim pretty seriously.

The fact was that Jim Ellison had gotten pretty lucky, if he cared to admit it. He’d been looking for a guide without even knowing it, and when one was dumb enough to take the job, he practically chewed the man’s head off at every turn. No wonder Sandburg wasn’t talking anymore.

Maybe...some sort of concession wouldn’t hurt. Not too soapy, but...something.

“Uh, about earlier...I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” Jim offered gruffly.

“I know that. Actually, you were better than I expected.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ellison snapped.

Sandburg’s voice became placating even as he directed Jim’s hand to the back of the couch. “Just that I can imagine how frustrating this has to be for you and I think you’re taking it pretty well.”

If that was “well,” he hated to see what Sandburg thought difficult. Only slightly mollified, Jim tried again even as he made his way round the couch, only wincing a little as he bumped the coffee table. “And I’m grateful for the help. It’s just that...I’m not used to needing--”

“--anyone, I know. It’s okay, man.”

“Would you shut up for a minute!” Jim sank onto the couch with relief. At least that was too big for him to miss. “I was gonna say, I’m not used to needing...a babysitter. But everyone needs help sometimes, me included, and...I’m glad you’ve been around when I do.” There, he’d said it.

Sandburg seemed struck momentarily speechless. Oh, for pete’s sake, if he was going to get all emotional... But all Blair quietly said was, “I appreciate that, Jim. I feel the same way.” Seriously. Honestly.

“Well...good.” He nodded. The answer unexpectedly pleased him. But it was definitely time to change the subject before they ended up declaring their undying love to each other or something. “So, what’s for dinner?”

He could hear the grin in his guide’s voice. “I was gonna try this new tofu and mango recipe on you while I had a captive audience, so to speak, but then I figured in your book that’d probably be grounds for assaulting a police officer--”

“It would,” Jim interjected.

“--so I just picked up some pork chops and potatoes, thought I’d make a salad to go with it. Sound good?”

He was nodding. “Sounds good, Chief.” And he wasn’t just talking about the menu. And to his surprise, he really meant it.

“Yeah, to me, too,” Blair said with real satisfaction before moving off into the kitchen.

Seeing straight and being able to stand without falling over would have been high on Ellison’s wish list at the moment, and he’d hold Sandburg and the doctor to their promises that he’d get it in a few days. But for now, considering the circumstances... He sat back in the sofa with a satisfied sigh. This wasn’t bad at all.

The ENd


End file.
